


Dedicated to...

by saretton



Series: Ineffable Husbands Week 2019 [7]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Books, Ineffable Husbands Week 2019, Literary References & Allusions, Literature, M/M, Musical References, Reading, Writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2021-01-25 14:14:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21357556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saretton/pseuds/saretton
Summary: Humans, Aziraphale thinks, are extraordinary. So are stories. So are books.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffable Husbands Week 2019 [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1488869
Comments: 6
Kudos: 26





	Dedicated to...

**Author's Note:**

> Ineffable Husbands Week  
Day 7: 15 September, 2019  
Theme: the bookshop or the Bentley  
My choice: the bookshop (even though it goes a little further from there)

Humans, Aziraphale thinks, are extraordinary. So are stories. So are books.

When angels were created, up in Heaven, the written word didn’t exist. Celestial beings passed the Lord’s commands on by word of mouth; this was enough for them to remember everything that needed to be remembered. Before the beginning, there had been no need to take notes, no need to make calculations on paper nor to jot thoughts down.

Humans are fragile, though. That’s why Aziraphale loves them. They don’t have as much memory as he, an angel, could ever have, but they are still capable of miraculous things.

Some of those humans (very few, to tell the truth) can remember an enormous amount of scientific data, theories and demonstrations; or epic poems, repeated on and on as something to be taught to younger generations, their minds still soft enough, eager to learn and to be engraved.

Aziraphale has been on planet Earth from the start. He’s been there in those ancient times when blind semi-omniscient aoidoi would weave their spellbinding stories out of their mouths. Many of them played a khitara while repeating their carefully stored epic tales of men, heroes, demigods and deities. They were the same old tales every time, but they were also slightly different; the human memory, however well-trained, was already feeble in those long-forgotten times. Missing or lost details were replaced with new ones, time and again. This meant that, every time the aoidoi told one of those tales, they kept creating a whole different story bit by bit, detail after detail.

Aziraphale has been there even before those times, after Adam and Eve’s descendants had populated the Earth. He remembers the great emotion he felt hearing the first words uttered by humankind, after having learnt that God didn’t talk much to humans anymore. With their fall from grace after the original sin, they had to learn how to communicate again. It was not an easy process, and Aziraphale witnessed every bit of it. He has been there, around bonfires, inside caves and grottos, listening to the very first sounds being moulded into coherent and structured languages. Those were already stories in their own right, precisely because they were the very first ones. Humans forgot them. Aziraphale collected them.

Sitting on his favourite armchair, Aziraphale tilts his head so that it rests on the seatback. He sighs, opening and closing idly the book he’s been reading.

Still… still, Aziraphale feels that the written word is something else entirely. The secrets it keeps, the joy it brings, the pain it can give, the eyes it can open. And when those same first humans started painting the walls of a cave, Aziraphale was sold. “_They will go far_,” he thought.

They did, indeed. As their fate unfolded through time, there came small tablets with cuneiform writings, hieroglyphics, ideograms, alphabets. At each one of these clever inventions, Aziraphale’s eyes sparkled with triumph. Those were things that not even he, an angel of the Lord, could have possibly invented. Humans… humans were quite divine in their own little, sweetly imperfect way.

And after papyri and parchments and all those thingamajigs, there came paper and the moveable type. Aziraphale caught a glimpse of this revolution around 1040 A.D. while he was visiting China. He was so excited by it that he couldn’t wait for this invention to spread to the humans of Europe, too. It took them some centuries, but eventually they caught up, adding the printing press to the process.

Aziraphale, in his millennia-long experience, was simply fascinated by this whole sub-story within the story of humankind. It was humans doing their magic. As he discovered, the moveable type, the printing press, ink and paper meant only one thing: books, soon to become his most valued treasures.

Small, confined explosion of culture and literature happened after these inventions. The more the people learned to read and write, the freer they became; and still Aziraphale has been there, enjoying that remarkable story – the story of humans taking their memory and their divinity back letter by letter, word by word.

Meanwhile, Aziraphale has learnt that, in times of need, humans _write_. Those needs may vary a great deal according to each situation; Aziraphale has learnt to spot them, providing encouragement and solace, when needed. Sometimes it’s the author, sometimes the audience; one way or another, there’s always someone who needs those words and those stories to be written down.

Aziraphale, for better and for worse, has been living long enough on this round ball of rocks and water and living matter. He remembers it’s always been a mess, because it’s always messy, when there are humans involved. A brilliant, extremely interesting confusion.

With time, he has learnt to make a home out of this mess; he has learnt to navigate the chaos inside his overstuffed mind and outside of it. Eventually, when he felt ready and organized enough, he opened a bookshop. (Of course, he just _had_ to name her Sofia.)

However, as fond as Aziraphale is of her, Sofia the bookshop is just a small part of all this self-imposed and very welcome mess. Nothing can compare to another, very special kind of library: the one inside his brain. It’s just infinitely more spacious and infinitely more crowded, as unbelievable as it sounds, given the constant state in which he keeps poor Sofia. Were this library a physical place, it would smell of dust, of dirt and spilled tea; it would look cramped but cosy, and… and it would probably feel lonely and dry, if it weren’t for the many multitudes of people and characters living inside his memory.

It’s the early Twenty-first century on this strange little planet. Aziraphale has read everything readable that he has managed to find in his hands. Still, as much as he’d be capable of reading the whole content of a book just by brushing his fingers on the cover or pressing the palm of his hand against it (ethereal powers, you know), he doesn’t like to do that. He _never_ does that. He is way too fascinated by the human way of doing things. Cradling a book, caressing its pages, whispering its words… these are way too intimate and endearing actions to be brushed off by ethereal powers.

Besides, Aziraphale knows well that each word is like a macaron. Each line is cotton candy. Each page is a dish of lasagne. Who is he to let himself starve in front of a feast? Just as he likes savouring food, Aziraphale, ever the hedonist, slowly tastes every single book, committing it to memory forever.

Year after year spent on this chaotic Earth, staying close to humans, watching over them, Aziraphale has learnt that the best thing sometimes is just _being there_ for them. What a comfort, to have someone to lean on! He learnt this lesson at great cost during the days before the Apocalypse. As an angel, it just felt natural to stay close to humans, and he wondered if they could somehow sense his presence. However, only when he was deserted by his own side did he realize that none of his fellow angels had ever been close to him. (There was just a lanky, caring and nice demon in sunglasses, holding his hand out for him, waiting in a corner…)

…Anyway, Aziraphale’s silent and invisible presence was (and still is) enough to provide humans with courage, hope and comfort.

“Sharing is caring”, humans often say. Before the not-Apocalypse, due to their opposite sides, Aziraphale couldn’t share his feelings and his care for someone else (a very specific ‘someone else’). Therefore, in order to do something with those emotions, preferably putting them to good use, he decided to share the humans’ feelings, at least. Doing that felt particularly easy when they were in times of need, because many of them would just start to write books.

Aziraphale remembers every time the humans have suffered. He experiences this suffering again and again as he reads books written out of grief, desperation and bleakness, one by one, page by page.

The moment in which words are written on paper, they become something else. They open new dimensions and they cannot be unwritten. You can’t fix a broken egg. You can’t pour the spilled ink back in the inkwell. You can’t kill a character you have created. Even if they die during the story, they are born once and for all when the ink goes dry and your fingers stop typing. They will live on forever, in their own dimension and parallel universe, and it’s there that Aziraphale reaches them every time he reads.

Aziraphale was there when Zamyatin was writing _My_, when the suffering and suffocating world around him was an inspiration to George Orwell’s bleak world in _1984_.

He was there when innocent children, left to themselves on an island, reverted back to mindless, violent beasts and started killing each other in a frenzied blood hunt.

He was there, stroking the hands of gentle little souls like Beth’s or Little Nell’s as their spirit departed the body.

He was there when count Dracula came flying through the night to make Lucy and Mina his brides; he was there, giving Heaven’s blessing to Van Helsing’s expedition in order to let the count have eternal peace.

And yet, he has been there also in times of joy, of love and hope.

He was there when Florentino finally made love to Fermina on that boat, after more than fifty years of undying devotion.

When Rodja found his atonement through the dawning sun of Sonja’s love.

When Santiago came back home safe and sound after his struggle to fish that huge marlin, finally breaking the curse that was on him.

When Fitzwilliam delivered one of the most famous, most romantic marriage proposals of all time.

And that was only the beginning of all the emotions he found within humans and within himself.

How related to Alice he felt, torn between the sleepy Red Queen and the stiff, controlling White Queen! How he cheered for Jean Valjean as he strived to be a good man! How in awe he was, standing there and watching Scarlett walking back to Tara, as she swore to God she’d never go hungry again! How he would have wanted to cuddle Matilda, to tell her that she was making a wise choice; that reading was perhaps the most important thing that she was doing; that she was special not for her magic powers, but because she had found the time and the courage to read so many books from start to finish. By doing that, she had the power to change her own world, and _that_ she did.

To think of the crowds of authors he met during history! Every writer he knew shed more light on human nature and helped him get better at his job. From Mary, smart naughty girl, to the sad-eyed Virginia; from Ernest, always up for a drink, to Francis, much less in the mood for a wild, roaring party than his books let on… and of course, dearest, most unlucky Oscar.

He was there, on that train to cold Siberia with Zhivago.

He was there, harvesting wheat in the blazing sun with Kostja and his slaves.

He was there, surprised as much as the other nobles to see Anna stand up so abruptly when Aleksej fell off his horse at the races.

He, an angel, a Principality of the Lord, was there when the Devil visited Moscow in his many personas. He was there when Margarita, Queen of Satan’s Great Ball, almost as naked as the day she was born, let her knee be kissed by a worshipping, never-ending crowd of damned souls.

When Vitangelo insisted his nose didn’t tilt to the right…

When Paolo and Francesca explained their unlucky love to Dante and Virgil in the merciless wind…

When don Quixote defied the giants and Achab defied the white whale…

He’s been there. Aziraphale has always been there.

He has met many people, both in person and in books, so he doesn’t consider himself alone. Yet… yet, from time to time, he has to admit that he still feels lonely.

Curled up on his comfortable armchair, a cup of hot cocoa in one hand, Aziraphale smiles as he connects some last sparse thoughts.

The Apocalypse is over before it even began. He wiggles his toes contentedly, closing the book he has been reading (or re-reading – he’s not sure anymore and, frankly, he doesn’t give a damn).

Gone are the days he lived on a page, inside a book, willingly locked up inside the bookshop and inside the library of his mind.

A gust of wind chooses that moment to burst Sofia’s door open, letting more light in. Aziraphale stands up, brushing the dust off his clothes with his hands. He puts his coat and his shoes on, and heads to the door to finally step outside, into the light.

The crisp autumn air tickles his nose, almost making him sneeze. It’s a beautiful day. Orange and yellow leaves, carried at the bookshop’s doorstep from She-knows-where, collect at his feet, as the wind begins to moan softly.

The first step out of his little world, the first flight out of his warm nest used to seem dangerous to Aziraphale, but not now. After what it feels like an impossibly long waiting, Aziraphale isn’t afraid of anything. He feels them, feels many millennia of people backing him up and cheering him just as much as he did while he was there for them. It’s a strange turn of events. Perhaps he couldn’t feel their presence back then, but now he is sure about it. They’re there for him. “Go,” they say. “Spread your wings. You’re ready.”

He starts humming a bittersweet, triumphant Sondheim tune, which may or may not be _Company_’s final song. It suddenly becomes one of his favourites. At last, after having read so much about life, after having been a somewhat detached witness while supporting real and fictional people, now he has a life of his own to live. No more Heaven or Hell. He just feels alive.

Soho and Mayfair are not too distant, especially on a sunny day. As he walks to a certain flat, Aziraphale realizes that he and Crowley have many things to discuss about the two of them, after the not-Apocalypse. Among billions of humans, there’s them, an angel and a demon, in that specific point of the Universe. After more than six thousand years, they’re still there, they’re alive, and this is the perfect time to talk about that.

_White. A blank page or canvas. His favourite. So many possibilities._

**Author's Note:**

> Finally. My last work for Ineffable Husbands Week 2019... which in my case has lasted more than two months, actually.
> 
> I'm sorry, I will not explain any of the f**kton of literary (and musical) references I put in this fic because they're just too many. It's almost a love letter to stories, books and reading, in a way. However, if you want to ask something specific about certain characters or works referenced, be my guest!
> 
> I'd also like to thank the sweet @Wallissa (@typinggently on Tumblr) for coming up with this nice prompt idea which has spurred me to write more after "Seventy Times Seven".
> 
> A bit of this work (Aziraphale discovering the beauty of written words) is inspired by an awesome and super sweet Inktober piece of art by @nordzee (on Tumblr). I'll just leave the link here, you should go check it out :D  
(Note to self: learn how to insert clickable links in the bloody notes, for the love of all that is holy.)  
https://noordzee.tumblr.com/post/188207416894/aziraphale-discovers-a-fascination-for-the-written
> 
> The usual disclaimer: I am a non-native English speaker who writes and proofreads her own stuff (so, no beta). If you notice some monstrosities in what I've written, please point them out to me and I'll fix them straight away!
> 
> Come visit me also on Tumblr. The nickname's @saretton there, too. :)


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